Veiled Revenge (7 page)

“I’d like to know some of those secrets too,” Lacey said.

“I would be disappointed if you did not. Like I always tell you, Lacey Smithsonian, you would make excellent spy. Except for your impulse to be a good reporter and tell all the world the news.” He chuckled.

“The Soviets?”

“Psychics were in great demand. Far more than you know. Did you know Boris Yeltsin was object of psychic attacks from KGB and others when he stood against the coup attempt?”

Psychic attacks? She tried to picture what that would look like.
Brain waves radiating from their heads?
“Did it work?”

Kepelov made a face. “Yeltsin was so nuts on a stick already, who can say? KGB and friends did not want Russian government to be reformed by Yeltsin, so they used whatever they had. But to protect Yeltsin from psychic attacks, his people brought their own psychics. To form protective mind shield around him.”

“Spy versus spy, the paranormal version.” Lacey tried not to laugh. “At least it meant full employment for starving psychics.”

“No psychic ever starved for long in Russia. No charlatan either. You are skeptical, you scoff. I scoff too. Even the U.S. had secret psychic programs. Not nearly so successful as Soviets.”

“No, of course not.”

He laughed again. “KGB even studied a Russian psychic who could stop the heart of a frog, stone dead, using just her mind. Stone-cold dead. What do you think of that?”

“Kill a frog? I think that’s no way for a girl to find her prince.”

Chapter 8

“But, Marie, why would you tell the police the shawl killed Leonardo?”

Lacey was seated in Marie’s bungalow, in a funky purple velvet Art Deco chair dating from the 1920s. To avoid sinking into it, Lacey kept her hands on the stout wooden arms. Marie’s house was packed with overstuffed furniture. The small Craftsman bungalow was in the Del Ray section of Alexandria, not far from the Braddock Road Metro. It was the first time Lacey had been inside and she was fascinated by Marie’s place. There was so much extravagant décor to look at, it was hard for her to stay on topic.

“Well, cher, it’s what I believe is the truth. And the police knocked on the door while my head was full of sleep. I was too groggy to just make something up. The news was so shocking, I could hardly believe it, but when they said Leonardo was dead, I just
knew
.” Marie rubbed her eyes and smiled sadly at Lacey. “It was the shawl. It had to be.”

Marie was one of those rare women whose luminous clear skin and dark eyes were expressive enough without makeup. Though she was a large woman, her body looked bountiful and curvy, but never fat.
Voluptuous
was the word people usually used for her. Lacey didn’t quite know how Marie managed that, but she envied her.

However, she’d told the D.C. cops Leonardo was murdered by the shawl! It was all Lacey could do to keep from groaning. But it was impossible to be irritated at Marie. She looked so unhappy and vulnerable. Her dark hair tumbled over a gauzy blue dress with silver sequins sparkling across the bodice and sleeves. The sparkly frock covered most of Marie’s tattoos, including the eyes of Horus on her shoulders.
Probably from
Fortune Tellers R Us Dot Com.

The fortune-teller’s feet were bare and her nails painted a deep purple, her favorite color. Yet, beneath her consciously exotic look, Marie was a canny businesswoman and her outfit suited her business. It wouldn’t do for a professional psychic to be caught wearing torn jeans and baggy sweats. Or a lawyerly gray suit.

“Do you remember what made you faint?” Lacey asked. “Or did you see anything before that?”

“Oh, I never remember. You know that, Lacey, cher.”

She tried another tack. “How did the police get your name?”

“Something about the bachelorette party at Rosebud’s, I think. They said Leonardo called his housemate from some bar afterward. He was drunk and babbling about how he wasn’t invited, and he mentioned Stella and the ‘fortune-teller.’ The police probably got my name from the restaurant. I handed out lots of my cards too. You don’t have to be psychic to find me.”

“We know you have nothing to hide, my darling,” Kepelov said loyally. “You were plying your trade.”

Marie nodded in agreement. “I only told Leonardo not to mock the shawl. He was so rude and just making an awful scene. It wasn’t like I predicted he’d meet up with the Grim Reaper. But then there was the—incident.”

“When you fainted,” Lacey filled in. “Even if the shawl had some dark power or evil intent, Marie, surely a human being would have to, let’s say, do its bidding for it to have its way? I mean, it doesn’t have teeth and claws, right?”

“Right.” Marie nodded, her eyes large. “I just put on a fresh pot of coffee. You want some?”

“Sure, why not?” Lacey had already had her dose of caffeine for the day, but if it helped clarify things, it might be worth a jittery day and a sleepless night.

Kepelov brought a tray laden with mugs of coffee, cream, and sugar. He handed Marie hers with a murmured endearment that Lacey didn’t catch. Lacey hesitated just a second too long when Kepelov handed her a mug. He frowned playfully.

“What, you are afraid of my coffee? Smithsonian, I am wounded! I do not slip you a Mickey in the coffee today, I promise. Only that one time! Are we friends or are we not friends?”

That one time.
He was teasing her about their first encounter, in the cellar of a farmhouse in the French countryside, in Normandy. Lacey had been searching for a lost corset full of Romanov treasure, and Kepelov and Nigel Griffin were hot on the same trail, though they thought they were searching for something quite different. Kepelov reached the cellar first. Some sort of secret Soviet knockout drops on Kepelov’s handkerchief, and Lacey was out like a light. Neither of them won that round.

“Gregor, darlin’, maybe Lacey just doesn’t like this chicory coffee from New Orleans,” Marie said soothingly. “If you don’t feel like coffee, cher, Gregor could whip you up some Earl Grey? Hot chocolate? Brandy?”

Lacey shook her head to cast all thoughts of that day in the cellar from her mind. She took a sip. Just chicory coffee, and tasty at that.

“Good coffee. Kepelov,
Gregor
, I had no idea you were so domesticated. You seem to be adept at whipping up all kinds of concoctions.”

“I have a variety of useful skills in the kitchen and elsewhere.” Gregor and Marie exchanged a smile and he rubbed her shoulder.

“Gregor is a man of many talents,” Marie said with a low, intimate laugh. “If you know what I mean.”

We are so not going there
.

“So, Lacey Smithsonian, how is it that the late Mr. Leonardo met his untimely death?” Kepelov asked.

Lacey shook her head again. “The police and the medical examiner aren’t releasing any information. But off the record, I hear one of the cops said something about poison.”

Kepelov sipped his coffee contentedly. “Poison? Very interesting. Very flexible medium, poison. So many kinds, so many ways. Could have been administered anytime, anywhere. Not necessarily at the party.” He focused on Marie. “How are you feeling, my dear? Not faint?”

“I’m fine, Gregor, sugar. Fit as a fine fiddle.”

“What do you really think of the shawl, Marie?” Lacey set her mug on the small star-covered bench that served as a coffee table. “Is it haunted or possessed, or just possessed of a creepy past?”

“That lovely thing, creepy? I should say not. And I would say, in my professional opinion, it is
not
haunted, so much as it is
extraordinary
. When I touch it, I feel all the love that went into it. It pulses with the life and energy of all the women who worked on it, and wore it, and added to its history. When it’s around my shoulders, it holds me with love. That’s what I feel. But it does have this—dark legend attached to it.”

“Where’s the shawl now?” Lacey asked. “I didn’t have a good chance to examine it last night. Would you mind if I take another look, Marie?”

“Sure thing, cher. Be right back.” Marie disappeared into her bedroom. They heard closet doors slamming, then drawers opening and closing. She returned empty-handed and nervous. “I don’t understand it. I’m sure I put it in the closet last night. Gregor, I can’t find it. It’s not anywhere I ever keep it. The shawl is gone.”

The three commenced an exhaustive search of Marie’s bungalow. The house was small and it didn’t take long. They looked everywhere: in the two small bedrooms with tiny closets, the cozy living room and dining room, the kitchen and one bath, the half-finished basement with laundry facilities, and the trunk of Marie’s purple Gremlin. But no shawl.

“You have no idea where it could be? Or who could have taken it?” Marie and Kepelov shook their heads. “No one else has been here today? Except the police? And you didn’t show it to the police this morning?”

“They didn’t ask to see it,” Marie said. “They thought the whole thing was silly. Cher, I can see you think I
should
know. I think so too, but I have blind spots, so to speak, in my—in my third eye.” Marie rubbed the middle of her forehead. “Lacey, I cannot foretell my own fortune! I cannot see the things in the future that are closest to me. It’s awful for me sometimes, to feel so helpless—” Her eyes filled with tears. “Oh, Gregor, cher, I’m so sorry. I’m devastated.”

Gregor hugged Marie tight. He lifted her face and kissed her lips and forehead. “Not to worry, my darling. We will continue our search. And you remember the legend of the Kepelov shawl? It always comes home.”

A knock on the front door startled them. Kepelov peered out a side window before he went to the door. Lacey half expected to see the D.C. police arrive for another round of questioning. But it was a woman who marched into the room. A woman with a dour look on her face.

“Ah, Lacey Smithsonian,” Kepelov said, shutting the door, “allow me to present my sister. Olga Kepelova.”

Chapter 9

There was nothing soft about Olga Kepelova. Even her brother, the rough and tough Gregor Kepelov, seemed to shrink back from her. Olga took in the room with a glance and a nod. It must have passed muster.

“Why, Olga, what a pleasant surprise,” Marie said. “You should have told us you were coming. I would have made beignets.”

“Is not necessary, Marie. I am family, apt to show up anytime,” Olga announced icily. “Social visit only.”

Olga’s direct stare made it clear she took no prisoners. She looked a bit older than her brother and just as tall. Her dark brown hair was severely blunt cut at her chin. Straight eyebrows framed those penetrating eyes, pale blue like her brother’s. Her plain brown shirt and slacks begged for anonymity, but it was hard to look away from her. She was somehow riveting. She stuck out her hand for Lacey to shake. Her handshake was firm, but cool.

“I am pleased to meet you,” she said carefully, in an accent that was thicker than her brother’s.

“It’s a pleasure,” Lacey responded. “Gregor never mentioned having a sister.”

Olga managed a stiff smile. “That is so like him.”

“You didn’t tell us you were coming,” Kepelov said.

“What, you don’t like surprises?” she asked.

“No,” he said. “But you know that.”

“That is what makes it so enjoyable for me.” Olga smiled at him.

“Are there more of the Kepelov clan?” Lacey was curious.

“There is another brother. We do not speak of him.” Olga lifted her head and sniffed the air. “I smell coffee. I would like a cup.”

“Where are my manners?” Marie, who had been watching Olga as if hypnotized by a snake, scrambled to the kitchen to retrieve the coffee herself this time, leaving Gregor behind, also hypnotized.

“I take it black as night,” Olga called after her. “No sugar.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, sugar,” Marie said from the kitchen.

“Lacey Smithsonian.” Olga turned back to her. “Why do I know that name?”

“I’m a fashion reporter. For
The Eye Street Observer
, in the District.”

“I never read about fashion. So frivolous.” The woman wrinkled her forehead and touched its furrows. “Ah, now I remember. You are the one.”

The one
. It was the one thing people said to her that most drove Lacey crazy.
The one
WHAT
?
What did she hear about me? And did she hear it from
The Eye
, or
DeadFed
?

“The one?”

“Gregor has mentioned you, and the famous Romanov corset. What a lucky find.”

“You could call it lucky,” Lacey agreed.

“But it was more than luck, was it not?” Olga stared at her.

Lacey lifted one eyebrow. “Perhaps it was fate.”

The tiny corset, ripped by bullets and spilling its hidden treasure of diamonds, had been worn by one of the Romanov princesses during their terror-filled execution in 1917. It was a spectacular discovery, not to mention a fabulous news scoop for Lacey and her paper, but the U.S. government had swooped in and gathered up the corset and the diamonds, for the treasure’s own “protection.” Whose protection, Lacey wasn’t sure. The American and Russian governments were still hammering out a complicated deal for the corset’s eventual return to the mother country, but not without a few perks for the United States, including a guarantee of the first museum tour. Everything would, of course, take years. But then, the corset had been lost for nearly a century, so it had all the time in the world.

“Are you looking for diamonds today?” Olga asked.

“Just answers. About the shawl.”

Marie bustled out of the kitchen with a cup of her hot chicory brew and handed it to Gregor’s sister, who turned around twice before deciding to sit down in a yellow velvet Art Deco chair. She sat down carefully, as if the chair might bite her bottom. Lacey imagined that Marie’s cozy living room, with its plush furniture, might have been the most feminine space Olga had ever occupied.

She would no doubt be more comfortable
, Lacey thought,
in a plain white room with stainless-steel tables and dentist chairs. With a naked lightbulb suspended from the bare white ceiling
.

“My dear Olga, to what do we owe this unexpected pleasure?” Kepelov said, with a trace of sarcasm.

“A sister cannot see a brother and his bride-to-be?” She snorted. “Very well, I came to see the shawl.”

“Why?” He squinted at her.

“Why not? To see what condition it is in. To see if it needs cleaning. To repair any pulled threads. To make sure everything is in order for the wedding.” She turned to Lacey. “Family heirloom, you know. I am the eldest Kepelova daughter, it is my responsibility.”

“Oh, Olga! I’m afraid—well—” Marie groped for words. “I can’t find it. It’s missing. We’ve just this minute discovered it’s not here. That is, we’ve misplaced it. Somehow. Somewhere.”

“Misplaced it? You have lost the family’s shawl? What happened?” Olga carefully set the coffee mug down and stared at each one in turn.

Pretending to be a fly on the wall, Lacey sipped from her lavender Little Shop of Horus mug and settled into her velvet chair. Gregor Kepelov took a breath and seemed about to try to finesse the situation, but Marie spoke very fast, not in her normally leisurely Louisiana drawl. She had taken the shawl to a party the night before, she told Olga, and now it was missing. And a man at the party who had “mocked” the shawl and its legend was now dead.

Marie would make a terrible spy
, Lacey thought. There was no guile about her, which was part of her charm. Gregor Kepelov added nothing. He waited for Olga’s reaction, and Lacey, fascinated, took it all in.

“Perhaps Gregor shouldn’t have mentioned to so many people all those ridiculous stories about the shawl,” Olga suggested.

“Who talks the most in this family?” Gregor asked. “You!”

“Are you saying the stories aren’t true?” Lacey inquired.

“I am not saying these stories are not true.” Olga was nonchalant. “Strange things happen, coincidences happen. Who can say what is true? And it is all only old family lore, you understand, from many years ago. But this legend makes it more interesting. More valuable to steal. Such an old and sentimental garment should be guarded most carefully.”

“Why didn’t you take over the shawl, Olga? You said you’re the eldest daughter,” Lacey said.

The woman grimaced. “Who would want the burden of it? I am not married, nor am I likely to be. I have no one to leave it to.”

“I feel terrible.” Marie was on the verge of tears.

Lacey tried to be the practical one. “If you brought it home, Marie, and no one has been in the house until now, then it must be here somewhere.”

“I don’t know—I can’t remember.”

Olga gave a small shrug and turned her formidable gaze on her brother. “I told you not to give the shawl to your fiancée until the day you are married. I told you it was not safe, that this is the history of the shawl. But do you listen to me? No.” She turned to Lacey. “That is part of the tradition. The bride gets the shawl on her wedding day. Not before. Never before.”

It was the first time Lacey fully realized the seriousness of Gregor Kepelov’s feelings for Marie. Until now she’d still been concerned he might be simply playing Marie for a fool. Lacey started to trust him a little more. But if he knew this shawl might be dangerous, why give it to the woman he loves? Why let Stella borrow it for the wedding, to serve as her “something old, something borrowed”?

“I do not believe in the Kepelov family superstition,” Gregor said evenly, meeting Olga’s stare. “My Marie has a gift. Her gift is stronger than the foolish legend of the shawl. And she will wear my name when we marry. Who more than her deserves to wear my family’s history? I take responsibility for its loss.”

Olga didn’t bat an eyelash, but Lacey could tell her brother had scored his point.

“‘The foolish legend,’ as you say. Neither do I believe it,” she said. “In principle anyway. But . . .” She changed the subject. “Marie. Are you certain you had the shawl with you last night, when you came home?”

“Well, I—” Marie began. “I fainted, and after that happens, I’m always a little foggy, in sort of a gray zone. I’m not all there for a little while.”

“You must learn not to faint,” Olga commanded. “The mind plays tricks. You may have left it somewhere. Gregor, do you remember if she had it?”

“I was more concerned for Marie than for an old piece of history,” he said.

Brother and sister shared a look. Lacey knew that look well. The look of a wiser elder sister, exasperated with a younger, scatterbrained sibling. It was slightly less obvious than an eye roll.

“I’m positive I had it,” Marie said. “Pretty positive.”

“Do you think someone at the party would take it?” Olga pressed.

“After the story that Marie told about it, everyone was convinced it was haunted and dangerous,” Lacey said. “I doubt anyone would be brave enough. Marie, maybe you left it at the restaurant.”

“I don’t know.” Marie sounded completely adrift.

“But someone could have taken it from here, from this house?” Olga inquired patiently.

“I suppose that’s possible. Maybe I should call the police.” Marie reached for the phone.

“Police? What have the police to do with it?” Olga said it as if calling the police were the most insane idea anyone could have.
“It is a family matter. Gregor, did you insure the shawl?”

“No.” Gregor put his hand over Marie’s. “And we’ve had enough to do with police for today, my dear, don’t you think?”

“Yes, sugar. I do believe you’re right.”

“Marie.
Exactly
what happened at the party?” Olga said.

There were purple bags under Marie’s eyes. She settled into the turquoise sofa. Lacey was afraid she might faint.

“Olga. Can you not see she is exhausted?” Gregor said.

“It’s okay, honey pie. There’s no need for secrets.” Marie started to recap the events at the bachelorette party and the many fortunes she had told while wearing the shawl. “And then this rude man, this Leonardo, a hairstylist who used to work with Stella, he crashed the party.”

Olga looked confused. “What is ‘crashed’? He drove through the window? In his car?”

“No, no. ‘Crashed the party’ just means he barged in without being invited,” Marie continued. “No one wanted him there. And then Leonardo saw me telling fortunes and made fun of the shawl. He yanked it out of my hands, threw it around his shoulders, and
danced
with it. Why, poor Stella—that’s our pretty little bride-to-be—was fit to be tied.”

Olga concentrated on Marie’s story, scowling. “He
danced
with the shawl? How? Like a waltz?”

“It was sort of a tango,” Lacey offered. “Then he rubbed his neck with it. Back and forth, like a towel.”

Marie nodded, her black curls bouncing. “And he had the nerve to complain the shawl scratched him. He must be sensitive to wool, or maybe the gold thread, I don’t know. And now he’s dead.”

“Served the crasher right,” Olga declared.

Leonardo was rash and rude
, Lacey thought.
But death is rather a harsh punishment for party crashing and making an ass of himself.

“No doubt another story to add to the legend,” Kepelov said.

“You said you fainted.” Olga pressed Marie for more details.

“Yes, but before that, Leonardo insisted I tell his fortune,” Marie said. “I refused. I was highly irritated and didn’t want my feelings to cloud my judgment. But he grabbed my hand and then—everything went black.” She sipped her coffee. “Actually, it went more purple. I never go completely
black
. And today, you’ll have to forgive me, after I faint, it’s as if I have a hangover. I’m just not at my best.”

“I see.” Olga turned to Lacey. “Did she tell your fortune too?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“The party wasn’t about me. Marie’s fortune-telling was for Stella’s guests. I was the hostess.”

“The hostess?” For the first time Olga seemed amused. “You must tell me your secrets to hosting such interesting parties. And perhaps we shouldn’t worry.”

“Not worry? What do you mean, Olga?” Marie asked.

“According to legend, the shawl always comes back. Fate has a way of catching up with us, whether we are ready for it or not.”

Lacey wasn’t sure fate was after her, but the chimes of her cell phone rang. They might as well have been wedding bells. “Sorry. I have to go. The bride-to-be is calling me. Olga, lovely to meet you. Gregor, thanks for the lift, but I’ll just grab a cab.”

“Smithsonian,” Kepelov said. “Not necessary. Purple Gremlin and I will be happy to take you wherever you need to go.”

“You’re too kind, really, Kepelov. But, ah, Marie needs you here.”

Marie blinked in concern and took Lacey’s hands in hers. “Cher, traffic’s going to be something else today! Watch out for those crazy drivers. It’s dangerous out there.”

“I wouldn’t worry. I already survived Gregor driving your purple Gremlin.”

Kepelov jingled his car keys. Lacey speed-dialed for a taxi.